by Paul Duffau
Mitch saw Paulson, the instructor who ran the loosely organized robotics lab, give them a frown and a head shake. Paulson allowed almost infinite experimentation with the mechanical equipment and electronics but drew bright lines at uncontrolled explosions and “socially inappropriate behavior.”
Mitch squirmed and muttered, “Paulson’s watching.”
“Yeah, so.” But Hunter retracted the mechanism, rotated it around the pivot of the motorized base, and sent the arm to full extension. “Go get the blocks. We’ll try stacking.”
Like he’d know what to do, Mitch thought, still stuck on Hunter’s comment about McKenzie as he ambled to the front of the room.
Hunter, with his dark good looks and compact frame, seemed to draw girls to him. He relished the attention—Who wouldn’t? a little voice whispered inside Mitch’s head—and chatted easily, using his hands in graceful gestures that mesmerized his audience. When the girls weren’t around, Hunter would comb through his wavy hair or stretch his shirt a little tighter across the muscles of his shoulders and chest.
Mitch wondered what it would be like to have girls want to touch his arm, get his attention, to smile at him like that.
In the middle of his reverie, Mitch’s hip hit the edge of the front-row lab bench, jostling it and earning a grunt of contempt. He ignored the noise with practiced inattention.
Better to cultivate a reputation as “most likely to be an ax murderer” for the yearbook than as a wimp, always saying sorry. He’d learned early, long before he got to Seattle and high school: Constantly apologizing only got your ass kicked.
For all his big talk, Mitch never saw Hunter with any girls, and he felt a moment of curiosity about it.
He passed Paulson on the way to the ubiquitous gray storage racks that sat under the high windows. A chill gray-filtered light, typical for the Sound, fell into the room from the windows. Hitchings Charter School for Advanced Technology didn’t rely on natural light, treating it as a decoration. The lab facilities utilized new-generation LED lighting, lending a starkness to the space.
Paulson, the lab leader, glasses tucked into the front of his button-down shirt, looked up from the laptop on his desk.
“You two are making good progress.”
Mitch shrugged and went to the shelf with the blocks, the green numbers visible through the translucent plastic of the bucket. The project that the class had was to design an articulating robotic arm capable of three different compound tasks. The easiest was a simple stacking exercise, picking up numbered blocks and stacking them with their bright green numbers right-side up.
He turned with the bucket in hand just in time to see Hunter making odd gestures, but not at him. His partner was staring at another team and seemed agitated. Mitch followed the direction of his eyes and saw that the other team was close to having the arm mechanism capable of grasping. Big deal. They still hadn’t mastered the pivot points; the controls to handle the pivots were wicked hard to get right.
He looked away and then quickly back to them when a burst of frantic activity drew his interest.
The other team’s arm, which a second ago had appeared stable, lurched, extended all the way out, then collapsed like a dying brontosaurus, complete with the counterbalancing weights on the back lifting as the arm fell, missed the bench top, and hurtled to the floor, while the two students flung themselves forward to catch it.
Heads all over the lab lifted, surveying the wreckage, and the closest offered encouragement to the guys who stood gazing dejectedly at a week of rebuilding.
The only head that didn’t turn belonged to Hunter. Mitch had watched his hands stop moving and his partner duck down just before the mishap.
A queasy feeling blossomed in his stomach as he walked to Hunter. He rolled his shoulders and dismissed it.
Getting neurotic, he thought.
Mitch dropped the bucket of blocks onto the surface of the workbench and studied Hunter. He did not see any guile there, and the worry in his stomach unknotted.
“What?” Hunter asked, raising his eyebrows as the stare went on too long.
“Nothing,” said Mitch. “Except . . .”
Hunter waited.
“Have you ever played with a stun gun?”
Chapter 8
The air tasted of honeysuckle, and the silver light of a double-sized moon hung over the class. The students sat with their backs straight and their expressions eager, apostles in the world of magic. They sat on rounded stones, metamorphic rock marbled with reds and browns, their surfaces polished by a millennium of wear. All of the students were older than Kenzie, many of them by decades. The hard seats on the far side of the circle were unoccupied. As though caught in a still-frame picture, the mottled rocks took on the appearance of turtles dipping into a sea of grass and swimming away. In the distance, a waterfall added a muted roar as it splashed into a narrow lake at the far end of the Glade, beyond the woodland.
The focus of her attention, though, stood within the center of the circle: a venerable old man. The wizened wizard, lit with an inner humor, demonstrated the sign again, his gnarled hands carving a simple pattern in front of himself, then sweeping the hand to the side. As he completed the gesture, he spoke the command, “Anemosa.”
A stiff breeze swept that side of the circle, the air ruffling the robes of the enchanters and enchantresses to Kenzie’s left. The bottom of her alabaster robe ruffled and caressed her ankles. A busty blond woman, probably about thirtyish, tittered annoyingly, and held the bottom of her robe tight to her legs.
“Try,” Harold said to the group, voice croaky with his years, but energetic. Harold had long ago refused a wizard’s name, and used his own, setting a tradition for the rest of the Family. He lacked raw power, but was a gifted and precise technician who dazzled with his array of spells and potions. The gnomelike man made an outstanding instructor in the craft.
Kenzie lifted her hand in the argent glow of the moon and scribed the same motions, but without reaching for the magic inside her yet. Around her, hands moved. Gusts swirled and collided, collapsing into each other.
Now, she thought. She calmed her mind and let the potency of the magic well forth, then cast the spell, whispering “Anemosa” as she released control of the energy, pointing to an aspen tree outside the circle. A vacuuming sensation grew at her fingertips. The tree quivered and shook, and a leaf floated down out of season.
“Gently, McKenzie,” Harold said. “A baby’s breath, not a tornado. Anyone can release magic in volume, but all magic has a cost. Try again, this time with more control and less power. Be subtle.”
Kenzie nodded, face hot. She caught a glare from the tittery twit. Not all the neophytes were born into the Family. Wilders emerged, usually in vivid and unexplainable events as their uncontrolled magic exploded on them. The Family wooed them with the promise of still more mastery as well as recognition from similarly evolved beings.
The flattery usually succeeded.
Kenzie frowned.
The newest members sneered at ordinary people the most. The term “Meat” started with them and infected the rest of the Family. Still, without the new acolytes, the Family would have disappeared.
A blast of solid air interrupted Kenzie’s reverie, almost knocking her from her perch. Her arms flailed as her feet left the ground. Instantly she shifted her balance to her right hip and slid with the force of the blast, letting it flow up and over her. Getting her right foot back on firm ground, she stood, swinging the other leg down, facing the direction of the spell.
She shook the tendrils of hair that lay across her face, hands already building a reply to the bullying move. She locked stares with the woman, saw the momentary pleasure change to concern as the other enchantress saw Kenzie’s hands moving, followed by relief as Harold stepped in.
“McKenzie, please sit down.”
He turned. His voice turned waspish. “Belinda, what did I tell McKenzie? Baby’s breath. And aim away from people, for goodness’ sake.”
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Stone-faced, Kenzie returned to her place in the circle. Anger churned below the surface. As Harold worked with a man two rocks away, she sought her center, breathing deep to cool her emotion.
Useless; worse than useless, total crap.
Her attention shattered, she couldn’t tap the reservoir of energy inside her. Frustration built on the anger as she cast one ineffective spell after another. She tried closing her eyes to envision in her mind the effect of the spell, to watch herself casting it, but the magic stayed quiescent, blocked by her emotions.
Lips compressed into a line and nearly squinting with the effort to hold her mind quiet, she finally managed to create a movement in the air, a gentle touch that moved gradually across the circle. It dissipated by the time it reached the far edge.
Old Harold noticed and misconstrued. “Excellent, McKenzie! Control, very good, very nice.”
Kenzie snorted and looked away from him, cloaking her reaction. If she had cast the spell properly, it would have released enough force to uproot the trees.
The lesson ended a few minutes later with Harold offering his usual cautionary suggestions: Don’t use magic outside the Gathering unless absolutely necessary, visualize the newest spell for practice, all magic comes with a cost. He beamed at them benevolently.
Harold was a fuddy-duddy. Nice, even if he did repeat himself a lot.
Dismissed, Kenzie stood and turned to leave the circle. In the distance, she saw the leaders of the Family in deep discussion, a veiling spell over the group. The conversation appeared heated, her mother pointing to underscore the importance of whatever she was telling them. With her mom, it was always telling, and Kenzie recognized the finger-point. She would have felt sorry for the other women, but they were all hard-edged themselves.
Kenzie headed in the opposite direction, toward the waterfall. A hundred yards from the teaching circle, she reached the brook and turned to the right to follow it. The burble of the water over the mossy stones was pleasant in her ears, and a peaty smell blended with the honeysuckle scent.
The horizon moved with her as she meandered. No one had ever reached the edge of the Glade. Like a soap bubble, it deformed and elongated to adapt to the interlopers. All sorts of theories had been advanced to explain the Glade, but Kenzie, born to the magic, contented herself with the knowledge that it existed without troubling herself with the unknowable why.
A peaceful sense of well-being overtook her on her walk along the waterway. Unselfconsciously, she rolled her shoulders and lifted her arms above her head, fingers intertwined, stretching as though reaching out to touch the silver moon that loaned its luminous glow to the land around her. The tension released from Kenzie’s muscles like a burden set down.
She reached the bank of the lake, and sat with a satisfied sigh, watching the billowing spray at the base of the falls. Her skin cooled, not uncomfortably, as the warm mist, delicate as gossamer, left a sheen of warm water on her skin, and a fresh, clean scent in the air.
She missed the animals that should have enlivened the Glade, but the land, air, and water stood barren of fauna. The lack reinforced the oddness of the Family as she made her solitary way to the falls. Nearly all of the new members came as Wilders, enticed into the Family and taught to harness their abilities. There were only three children, two of them younger than Kenzie, one a boy, the other a girl.
The magic can’t die, she thought, repeating a mantra laid on her since she first stood in her crib. The words sat heavy on her heart, and the solitude of the falls darkened, tarnished by her drifting melancholy. To distract herself, she sought a spot in the water and touched it with magic, raising a delicate shape that reminded her of pictures she’d seen of undines, elemental spirits that inhabited pools and waterfalls. She lifted the shape free of the water and let it pirouette.
A song reached her ears, sad and audible over the sound of the falling water. The melody carried a pang of regret, of what could not be. Kenzie knew that she had imbued her creation with her pain, the magic holding it forth.
The magic cannot die. It was the law of the Family that magic married magic. The women who led the Family expected her to choose from the eligible wizards from within their own ranks, preferably a Wilder, to improve the genetic diversity. There was no other choice. The genes that allowed magic must be reinforced. The Family must flourish.
In a year, two at most, the eligible bachelors would court her.
A shudder ran through her body, and the watery undine swept back into the pool without a ripple, taking the song with it.
She glanced to the moon setting at the edge of the Glade, glittering stars accompanying it, and knew that it was time to leave. She stood, brushing her robe straight, and, as she did, a spark leapt from the fabric to her hand. She jerked her hand away, eyes widening.
At the edge of her vision, she caught movement on the lake. A single wave rolled in toward shore, low and fast, and washed onto the white sand of the small beach. As fast as it arrived, it withdrew, and the lake returned to placidity.
Coldness touched her spine, and the hairs on her arms rose.
On the beach, an object gleamed, brought in on the wave.
She crept close, drawing together a defensive spell. Better to be careful than cooked.
A necklace, Kenzie saw. She knelt next to it, careful not to touch the chain or the rounded charm attached to it. The silver charm bore four filigreed petals that resembled hearts, with an empty setting in the center. From the bottom of the fitting, a translucent green gem hung, square cut with beveled edges. The chain was choker length, with a simple clasp.
It’s beautiful, she thought, but basic caution kept her from touching the piece. Magic existed, neither good nor evil, as neutral as gravity. Things created by magic, though, were imbued with their maker’s purpose.
So who made this? ran through her mind, then, Why?
She didn’t have much time to decide what to do. Should she take it with her? Could she? The rules here were perplexing. The size of the Glade was shrinking as the rest of the wizards began leaving in ones and twos. Her parents would be waiting, unless their councils ran long.
She extended her arm and touched the gem with a hesitant forefinger, half-expecting to trigger a spell, but nothing happened. Kenzie bit the inside of her lip and pondered. Then, making a decision, she scooped the jewelry into her hand and stood.
As she hurried away from the waterfall, she thought she could hear the song again, and wondered if she was making a huge mistake.
Chapter 9
Mitch left the door of the garage down.
“This thing run?” asked Hunter. He sounded dubious as he wandered around the Camaro, inspecting the dings, dents, and rust. The crunching sound of plastic breaking made Mitch wince.
“You got a busted taillight, too.”
“Runs great,” Mitch said as he slipped behind the wheel and cranked the engine over. It grumbled to life, the bass reverberations vibrating the walls of the garage. For fun, he punched the gas. The engine roared, then tailed off to a steady vibrating purr.
He got out and left the door open.
“Wanna sit inside?” Mitch indicated the open door with a sideways jerk of his head.
Distaste flashed on Hunter’s face, making the answer clear.
Figures, thought Mitch. No getting the chinos dirty.
“You could buy something better and not have to work on it constantly, you know.”
Mitch didn’t answer him. He didn’t know how to explain the pleasure he derived from rebuilding the classic car. His uncle controlled his small inheritance, but let him buy the parts that got the small-block V8 engine running again. The project had started with a lump of inert steel hauled in on a trailer, and he felt a sense of gratification in the rumbling proof that he had been successful in transforming it into a functioning vehicle. The body work would come next. The big thing was that she ran.
The fumes from the exhaust sat in the air, slightly acrid.
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�Can’t work on a new car, with all the electronics crap,” he said, walking to the back of the long, narrow garage to pop open a window.
“You don’t have to work on a new car. That, dude, is the point of new.”
Mitch shrugged his shoulders, stepping on an ancient couch that might have originally been green. “I like it.” He forced the window open and took a lungful of fresh air.
The springs creaked as he hopped off the couch. He pointed to the beat-up olive green dresser across from the couch. The stun gun rested next to the television and game console.
“Ready?”
“You first,” said Hunter, sounding less confident than when he had agreed to the “experiment.”
Mitch picked up the weapon from the cluttered surface. “Chicken.”
“You gonna turn off the car first, before we choke on the exhaust?”
Mitch turned and reached in through the open car door and turned the ignition off. A memory of the throbbing sound lingered in his ears for a few heartbeats. Outside, he heard the sound of his uncle’s car rolling up, his shift at the plant complete. He faced Hunter and lobbed the stun gun over to him.
Hunter caught it sure-handedly, using both hands. The two of them had become friends during tryouts for the basketball team in their freshman year. Hunter had displayed a solid handle dribbling and an excellent three-point shot. He’d started on the JV, and swiftly been elevated to the varsity team on the strength of his outside shot.
The coach had been almost apologetic when he cut Mitch. A big believer in statistics, the full-time calculus teacher and part-time coach had the team managers chart everything. The coach summed it up on Mitch’s last day of tryouts.
“You got a great motor that never quits, and you seem to play good position defense, but whoever you guard always hits eighty percent of their shots. At first, we thought it was a statistical fluke.” The coach, a genuinely good guy to Mitch, had been perplexed. “Never seen or heard of anything like it.”